Hollow
by Trella
Summary: Life is like a game of pool.


**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And Will wouldn't be so clueless.  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:  **Hollow.

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

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Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

She keeps shooting.

One by one they all roll and fall.  One by one they all disappear.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

The sounds soothe her nerves.  The world around her is still going, buzzing with the meaningless small talk and occasional bursts of laughter from people congregating in small masses of pointless groups like cows in a herd.  But she hears nothing but the sounds of her cue hitting the ball, hitting another, and another, and another...

The smoke filling the room gives the atmosphere of a typical pool bar in those low-budget movies trying to capture the "essence of the streets" with the dimmed lights, slutty barmaids, and green lamps hanging from the ceiling.  Yeah, whatever.  The bigshots behind the movies are making a million a fucking hour and the actors a hundred times more.

She takes a swig of her beer (Guinness, what else?) and idly wishes for a glass of wine instead.  Beer was never her cup of...alcohol.  Whatever.

Another shot.  The yellow one in the corner pocket.  She vaguely feels a sense of hollow surprise.  The solid yellow was always her unlucky one.  And now it's the third one in after the break of her fourth game.

She knows she's not playing an actual game or following anything resembling rules, but she realizes she doesn't actually give a shit.  Rules are made to be broken and she's good at that.

Stiletto heels were not invented for playing pool.  Neither were tennis bracelets or black, stuffy business suits.  But, as for most other things, she doesn't care.

Her hair is pulled back so as not to get in her face.  That and to give the appearance of a strictly professional agent.  The dark sunglasses add to the untouchable air she has sometimes.

The bar is filled with the normal types of people who crowd pool bars on an idle Tuesday night.  A large, hairy, heavily tattooed man in sunglasses and chains approaches her from behind.  Her senses are alert, primed for any threat and ready to hurt.  To kill.  But she remains detached, devoid of any real feeling.

The man says something rude in hopes of getting her angry.  His little friends (define friend) laugh rowdy laughs.  Another pipes up with a dirty comment but she doesn't even register.  Just keeps shooting in her hollow, methodical manner, her eyes hard and cold.

He's getting impatient.  Or angry.  Or both.  Whatever it is, he's resorted to cursing.

No response.  The cue ball smacks the solid purple and ricochets out of one of the middle pockets.

His arm snakes around to grab her shoulder but it doesn't make it halfway through the air before it breaks, eliciting a scream of pain and a threat.  But he's cut short by another man who quietly informs them that they will lose several body parts if they don't leave.

Her hand stops mid stroke.  Not really stops, just pauses and then she resumes her activity, her face once again an impenetrable mask.

But she did not go unnoticed.

The men leave, grumbling.  Although the man is less than half their age, they've seen his work and fear him.  His reputation is famous in all circles, rich and poor, foreign and American.

He turns his full attention to her, but she pays no attention, just shoots.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

Her eyes are no longer cold or hard.  Just hollow.  Once vibrant and expressive, they're just empty now.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

A striped red in the corner.  She keeps shooting, ignoring the man watching her carefully with piercing but impassive eyes.  They are cold and hard, just like hers were.  But there's something else there.  Something else that she has no wish to analyze.  She doesn't care anymore.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

The world is rushing back to her, her sense of awareness heightened.  She doesn't like it.  She thinks maybe if she keeps playing, keeps ignoring, she can slip back into that isolated world of oblivion.

Everything is silent.  Everything that matters, anyway.  The pirate-like men have found a table and are now snickering at some other trivial thing.  The bartender carelessly converses with yet another person in a world of pain.  No doubt something to do with paying the rent and a cheating spouse.

She keeps shooting, all the while ignoring.  Physically, she's grounded.  Pull back, aim, shoot.  Easy as losing a bet and hard as life.  Mentally, she's floating.  She sees only the ball and the cue.  He is somewhere in the corner of the eye, the back of her mind, but she pushes the thoughts out as soon as they enter her head.  She thinks instead of how life is like a game of pool.

Inwardly, she scoffs at her own indolent thinking but she keeps going with the metaphor.

Life is like a game of pool.  Everything starts all racked up and neat, the balls in a perfect, tight triangle, the chalk fresh on the cue, the white ball precisely placed and ready to go.

And then it breaks.

Everything explodes, flying to every corner of the world.  If it's done right.

One wrong move and it's over.  A slip of the finger, slight miscalculation of the angles and any chance of perfection is gone.

Even the most sure shots are risky.  The balls lined up exactly the way she wants them to be, and yet she screws up sometimes.  Instead of flying neatly into the pocket, they rebound off another misplaced ball or the corner of the side leading into bliss.  Of course, and expert would be able to minimize this, but still.  Nothing is sure but death, taxes, and the knowledge that there will be an interruption in the middle of an important, heated conversation by the annoying, shrill beep of a pager or that god-awful cellphone ring.

Clank.  Roll.  Bounce.

This should be easy for her.  Aiming and shooting is a basic skill.  And yet, that damn eight ball just won't fly in.

She knows she's fucked anyway so she attacks harder than that Black Widow on ESPN or whoever the hell it is.  The only difference is that the pros play for skill and style; she does it for the furious hardness of it.  Although there is a certain amount of natural style in her aggression. The balls ricochet off the sides with such force that the cue ball bounces.

He tells her to take it easy in his soft, perfect tone.

He's not dressed for the bar, either.  Not this one, anyway, in his perfectly tailored, blue suit and gleaming, silver watch.  But he doesn't really look out of place, either.

She tries to keep ignoring him, just shooting.  Life is like a game of pool.  She's still harping on that thought, lazily taking a drink of beer and a behind the back shot to finally get rid of that damn eight ball.  It flies into a corner pocket.

Life is like a game of pool.  Everything goes sooner or later.  Everything disappears into one of those little holes, knocked in by something else.

He gets up and racks for her, picking up a cue for his own.  She feels a tinge of something (irritation?  surprise?  anticipation?) but it's muted and she's still detached and the hazy smoke filling the bar is still in her eyes.  She quickly suppresses anything that might've risen in the vicinity of her head, heart, or anywhere else.

He breaks.  Perfectly.  The solid blue flies into a corner and the solid red goes into the other.  He's set up perfectly for another shot.

She says nothing, just watches.  Life is like a game of pool.  The luck involved (although most of it is skill and cold calculation) is essential and some people just get all the breaks.  And of course, money.  Always money.  But not now.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

She hasn't touched the cue ball yet.  He's still going.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

He keeps shooting.

One by one they all roll and fall.  One by one they all disappear.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

Just the solid yellow left.  If she could make a sound or change her expression, there might've been a scoff or an ironic smile.  But there's nothing now.  Just hollow eyes covered by Gucci sunglasses and a world-weary expression worn on perfect skin.

Clank.  Roll.  Bounce.

He raises his pool cue and looks at her in submission.  She stares for a moment, then begins shooting.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

In a matter of (tense?  anguished?) minutes, she clears the table.  But going for the shiny, black ball, she hits the solid yellow in.  He smirks.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

Life is like a game of pool.  Such a small thing can be the absolute, deciding factor in a premeditated but interrupted outcome.

Clank.  Roll.  Bounce.

He misses.

Clank.  Roll.  Bounce.

There are no words and yet it's a heated exchange.  He raises his pool cue to shoot, all the while with his eyes on her face.

Swoosh.

He misses the cue ball and instead hits one of the pockets, the tip of his cue tangled in the net.  He struggles to free it, frustration overcoming his icy exterior.  He trips, however, and the butt of the cue hits him in the face, causing him to jump back and drop the cue, cursing at the piece of wood.  He straightens himself up, plastering that mask back on his face.

A moment.  She fights the urge to laugh.  The grip on her cue tightens, her lips pursed and her body poised.

He waits, just looking at her, eyes dancing.

Her knuckles whiten but she can't hold it in.  Laughter comes bubbling up like warm champagne after the cap has been popped.

Another second and she's holding her stomach, the other hand still holding her cue.  She tries to speak with a gasping breath, but nothing comes out except for more laughter.

His eyes are still cold but are now dancing with merriment (for lack of a better cliché).  He fights to keep his own smooth exterior but can't fight it either.

Another second and they're both laughing so hard it feels like the muscles in their abs are contracting tighter and tighter until they'll never loosen.  And still, they both laugh.

Finally, the laughter subsides enough that she can say something, only to feel it bubbling up again.

"Sa- you...missed...you're suppo-..."

She wouldn't be able to stop laughing if her mother walked in with her father's corpse, although the thought of that sobers her a bit.

He is doubled over in laughter, providing the unusual imagery of a normally suave, suited agent not being able to control his laughter and an ice queen in a black business suit and sunglasses in the same exact circumstance.  The bar patrons, including the pirates and the bartender, just stare at the two, then return to their activity muttering under their breaths.

"Mis-...Mi..."   He gives up, gasping for breath.

Finally, he can speak.

"I assure you, that will not happen again.  You-"  He looks pointedly at her.  "You distracted me."

Indignant surprise flashes across her amused face.

"Hey, it's not _my_ fault you decided to play rough with your pool cue.  Both of you should sit in the corner for some time-out.  Don't you know violence isn't the answer?"

Another moment.  They stare at each other, knowing the irony behind that rhetoric.  A second and they both look away and she picks up her cue to shoot.

"Sydney."

His hand is on her arm.  She can't handle it, not now, not here.  She draws her arm away and pushes her sunglasses up further.

"Sydney."  Louder this time.

Sigh.  "Sark."

His eyes pierce deep into her hers, straight to her icy, jaded soul.

"Please, not no-"

She doesn't get to finish her sentence.

He's too quick for her; she doesn't have time to scream or break something before his face is in hers and he's kissing her.  Hard.  She has no choice but to respond with equal fervor and strength.  It's like the duel they had before with the pool table; silent but heated.

She vaguely wonders what is going through his mind, kissing for all to see, for anyone to record or shoot or capture.  But his hands are on her waist and hers are around his neck and in his hair and she doesn't care.

She tries to pinpoint when the grabbing turned into caressing and everything suddenly became soft and tender, but he's pressed against her and she can't think anymore.  Somewhere along the line, her sunglasses came off and his jacket fell off of his shoulders.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it ends.

They're both gasping for breath but Sark has that infamous smirk back on his face, his eyes cold and blue and unreadable.  He straightens himself off, putting his jacket back on and dusting it off with a nonchalant air about him.

She's just trying to understand, but she knows she already does.  The mask is back in place and so are the sunglasses.  She racks after finishing her beer and signaling one of the barmaids for another.

"I'll break."

And she does.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

Things are no different now.  The pirates and the rest of the clientele didn't give them another glance and she's slipping back into that world of ice and stone.

Striped orange in the corner, but the solid yellow in the middle pocket.

Life is like a game of pool.  Things come in unexpected ways and times.

He shoots.

Clank.  Roll.  Sink.

Nothing's changed.  She watches him concentrate on both the ball and her and she knows that in the morning, everything will just be seen as a drunken mistake no matter how sober or right it is.  Nothing's changed.

But her eyes are a little less hollow and he sees that.

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A/N: I was playing pool and my muse attacked me.  I know, it's weird, don't kill me.  Talk with my muse.  Too weird?  Difficult to understand?  Stupid?  Not plausible?  Okay, great.  I sound like one of those personal injury commercials now.  But not really.  Anyway, the point is...um, I don't exactly know if I had a point.  But I can be very pointy, really.  I swear.  Uh, anyway, thanks for reading and please review!  Sorry for all the S/V people...I'm a VartanHo and this is not VartanHo material, I know...but I couldn't resist.  Although now that I think about it, Vaughn playing pool makes much more sense.  Oh, well.  Deal with it.  But while you're dealing, please review!!!  And remember...make cake not war.  My political statement of the day. :-)


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